Diary of a Conjurer (14 page)

Ivar glanced across the room at his adoptive
parents sleeping peacefully in the shadows under their fleece. They
never had any other children. Aren and Britta insisted he was their
chosen one, and they were honored to raise him. He wished he could
be happy with that knowledge, but as much as he loved them, and his
village there was something missing.

Ivar wet his lips and tried to change the
direction of his thoughts. When his friends got back from their
quest, when the snow on the mountain melted and the waters ran
clear again, they would all go hunting.

He closed his eyes, and that was when he
heard the Song, the one he had been waiting for all these years.
Afraid to exhale, he held his breath so as not to miss a note, as
its melody rang clear in his ears.

Time has ridden on chariot wheels

Flying on clouds for your heart to
reveal.

Your scars uncovered

Your wounds exposed

The boy once was, the man disclosed

Your treasures lure

Your heartaches are cured

The past is your call

But fear is your fall

The journey will soon uncover your
shield.

The journey will soon uncover your
shield.

Ivar lips moved in rhythm, repeating and
whispering and remembering the words so that he wouldn’t forget a
syllable. He sat upright, singing the song aloud. Aren stirred from
his bed across the room, and finally and rose.

“Ivar?”

“It’s a Song, father. The wind is speaking to
me.” The light of the evening sparkled on his smile when he turned
to face Aren. “It’s the Songs of Wisdom. It’s singing about my
Crossing. It wants me to go on the quest. The wind is calling
me.”

Aren pulled away his blankets, rose quietly
as not to wake his wife, and came to his son’s side.

“Ivar, dress. We’ll go and talk to
Amleth.”

Song of the Sea

“It’s dangerous, Aren.”

Ivar couldn’t help but overhear Amleth, even
though the Kaempern leader whispered with his back turned to him.
The youth waited at the door as his adoptive father stood across
the room facing the chief. Aren’s sigh was both audible and visible
as his shoulders sank into it.

“The Songs, sir.” Aren reminded Amleth.

“Yes, I know, I know. The power of the wind
has always held a special place for your boy. And indeed we need to
take guidance. But . . .” He shook his waist-long strawberry blond
curls, a mane any Kaempern warrior would have been proud to bear.
“Ivar.”

The boy stood straight as the chief addressed
him.

“It’s not the will of our people to let you
go.”

Ivar swallowed his disappointment and looked
to Aren, hoping Aren might interject but his father said
nothing.

“Why, if I might be so bold?” Ivar’s response
was meek compared to the anger that boiled inside.

Amleth walked to him and looked into his
eyes, the chief’s were as blue as the sky at high noon, lined in
red. Ivar knew that Amleth was a passionate man, and often his
concern for his people would draw his emotions to the surface,
still he was surprised to see Amleth actually shed tears over
him.

“Your name is Beloved, Ivar. Ever since we
brought you here, you have been a special addition to our
village.”

“I only want to go on a quest, sir. I’m not
planning to leave permanently . . . Even if . . .” his voice
tapered as he took a quick glance at Aren. “Even if I do find my
parents, I’ll still be your son, I’ll remain a Kaempern. Forever. I
promise.”

Ivar couldn’t quite read Amleth’s nod. It
seemed as though the chief didn’t believe him, that he wasn’t
convinced of Ivar’s loyalty. Ivar rolled his lower lip under his
teeth, bracing himself for disappointment.

“I understand your heart, son,” Amleth
whispered.

“Is that the decision then?” Aren asked.

“No. I haven’t made a final decision,
yet.”

Once again Amleth and Aren exchanged glances.
The temperature of the room slowly rose as Ivar stood and waited.
The only sound was Amleth’s occasional tapping of his fingers on
the wooden table as he paced by, or his heavy sigh after he started
to speak, and then retracted and looked out the window instead.
Eventually he stopped walking, folded his arms across his chest,
and stared at the moon.

It had been late when Ivar and Aren rushed
off to Amleth’s yurt, well past the middle of night. Now, after
hours of discussion, and waiting, the placement of the moon had
fallen toward dawn, yet still no final decision had been made.

Amleth shook his head and breathed another
long sigh. He first turned toward Aren, who seemed to have woken
from sleep, and then to Ivar. He spoke, his words as quiet as his
breath. “I can’t argue with the Wind. Its power is not mine to
restrain.”

He stepped closer to Ivar whose heart beat
rapidly in anticipation of Amleth’s next words.

“Go. If indeed you must take the Crossing,
then let the sea set your course.”

“I won’t disappoint you. I promise.” Ivar
held his breath to contain the excitement.

After Amleth nodded, his
eyes penetrated deep, piercing Ivar’s inner being. He’d never been
examined like that before and it stung.
What does he see that I can’t?
The
man turned and said nothing, nor did his eyes rest on Ivar again.
Instead, the Kaempern chief lowered his body on the bench by the
table, leaned low, elbows on his knees, his head buried in his
hands.

Aren quickly grabbed Ivar’s arm and hurried
him out the door through the woods.

“I don’t understand. Why was Amleth so
hesitant to say yes, and so remorseful when he gave consent?” Ivar
raced to keep up with Aren.

His father didn’t answer. Aren held the door
open for Ivar, the oil lamp flickered as a breeze followed them
inside.

“Is he worried about something? My skills?”
Ivar studied the shadow on Aren’s face as he passed him.

Aren shook his head.

“Why is everything such a secret?”

Aren shut the door and pulled a leather bag
from the rack where their coats hung.

“What does he know about my past? What do you
know?”

“Son, we don’t have the answers that you
need. There are some things that we do know, but to tell you in
part would be a disservice. It would be like handing you a piece of
kindling while attempting to describe a cedar tree.”

There they were again. Riddles. Ivar was
always answered in riddles whenever he asked about his past-riddles
that were difficult to understand. If Aren and Amleth, or anyone
else in that village knew something about his former life, they
refused to tell him.

Aren laid the bag on the table. “If you’re
certain it was the Songs of Wisdom, then follow its lead.”

“I’m certain I heard them.” He could not have
been more sure. Even now the melody was ringing in his ears.

“The sea is full of storms and tempests.
You’ll be wet from the morning fog and cold from the nighttime
mist,” he said, gathering the warmest clothing Ivar owned. “It’s
easier to cool off than it is to get warm. You’ll need these.”

“I’m not sure which way to begin my
Crossing.”

“Go to Menek. Theirs is the ocean port. If
you begin at the docks perhaps you’ll be able to hire on as a
fisherman.”

Ivar’s eyes lit up. Ever since Aren had taken
him to the Menek village to trade hides for the sailor’s smoked
fish, Ivar had fallen in love with the sea. He swore he’d return
someday, live there, build a yurt, and become a fisherman. At least
Amleth had shown some sensitivity to Ivar’ desires, sending him on
a sailor’s course.

“You can take the trail from Moor Cove.”

“Or I can build a raft and go by water.”

Aren shrugged. “It’s your decision. It’s not
a long journey and if you feel inspired to build a raft, then
that’s even better. Shows ingenuity!”

They packed in silence. When Ivar picked up
his bow, he thought about Amleth.

“If Amleth doesn’t want me to go on my
Crossing, does that mean I don’t have his blessing?”

“If he gave permission, you have his
blessing.”

“But he seemed so despondent after he
consented. Doesn’t Amleth trust the Songs of Wisdom?” Ivar folded
his tunic.

Aren put his hand on Ivar’s shoulder and
squeezed. “Amleth believes in the Songs. That’s the only reason
he’s letting you go. You’re younger than the others. He’s just
hesitant. He doesn’t know–.”

Ivar hoped he misunderstood Aren. “He doesn’t
trust me?” the boy asked shoving the linen shirt into the pack.

“He trusts your heart. Amleth told you
that.”

“What does that mean?” Ivar sneered. His
father may have meant those words as encouragement, but to him they
were a rebuke.

“If he didn’t have some faith in you he
wouldn’t have told you to go. I have faith in you. We just–we want
you to be strong.”

“Isn’t that what this is about?” Ivar rolled
his fleece, anger rising inside of him. “I’m not as strong as I
want to be, probably not as strong as I need to be. Isn’t this
journey supposed to make me strong? Isn’t that the whole idea of
sending us away, so that we come back strong?”

“Yes, Ivar, it is.” Aren paused for a
moment. “Listen to me,” He took Ivar by the shoulders, leaning over
slightly to face him squarely. His eyes were a father’s eyes,
gentle but stern, fearful, and caring. “Keep your ear to the Wind
and never forget what the Kaemperns taught you. And try-” Aren’s
voice faded into the still of night. He was looking for words that
weren’t easily found, and that made Ivar angry. If he’d only blurt
out the truth, then Ivar would know where he stands. Why is it so
hard?

“Try what?”

“Try to make decisions with your intellect,
not your emotions. You have a temper that needs to be
controlled.”

Ivar shoved an extra pair of moccasins in his
pack.

“Ivar, son, listen to advice. Heed a warning
if you hear one. It could mean life or death for you on this
journey. Have nothing to do with wickedness.”

Ivar kept his hands busy, stuffing his
clothes further into his bag, avoiding Aren’s eyes.

“Ivar?”

“You don’t think I’ll listen?”

“You haven’t been tried, yet.”

He’d had enough of this talk. Ivar filled his
quiver with the stoutest arrows that he had, which could double as
spears should he need to fish.

That was it. He was ready. He faced his
father and they embraced.

“You have our blessings, Ivar. We want
nothing but the best for you.”

“I know you do, Father. I love you.”

Ivar’s moccasins shuffled quietly over the
soft mulch of the forest floor. Though the night was dark, his
night vision was keen, and his feet sure. He knew the terrain in
these woods as well as the deer did; his movements were just as
graceful. The salty scent from the southern cliffs lured him on.
Switchbacks brought him to the rim. Below, Moor Cove waited.

Ivar breathed deeply as he looked out across
the sea. Reflections of the night twinkled on the waters, the
constant hum of the foamy breakers glistened on the sands.

Raft building was not new to Ivar. He and
Tage would go to the beach and practice survival skills for the fun
of it. He was no stranger to the Menek piers either, since after
the war and the expulsion of Stenhjaert the dragon, the seaside
village became one territory. Though the Kaemperns stayed faithful
to their homes in the woods, a treaty between the fishing village
of Menek and the forest dwelling Kaemperns was signed, and both
tribes now coexisted peacefully.

Ivar slid down the embankment; pebbles
rolled from under his feet and tumbled to the sandy beach like
hailstones. The morning was peaking on the horizon in gilded
ribbons. A new day, a new life. Ivar laughed and stepped from the
cool shadows of the cliff. He pulled his shirt over his head and
tied it around his waist, setting the bow, quiver, and pack aside
while he looked for materials to build his vessel.

Moor Cove was a quiet cove, the waters were
deep and formed a protected inlet for ships. Trails leading to the
both the Kaempern camp and the Menek village were easily accessible
from its shore, and the surf gentle, especially at low tide, as it
was now.

The beach was cluttered with driftwood,
allowing Ivar to find logs perfect for a raft. He spent the morning
pulling them from their piles and laying them on the sand in
columns. With a hunting knife he cut notches in the ends so that
they fit snug.

Patches of milkweed grew near the cliffs,
and after harvesting last year’s stalks, Ivar separated the stems
in long strings, twisting the fibers tight. He then wrapped the
lacing he had spun around two logs at a time, alternating the wrap,
so that each log was bound to another. He placed the finished raft
in the water.

The sun was well overhead by the time Ivar
had completed his raft. Exhausted, he sat in the shade of the
cliffs, enjoying his late lunch of bread and dried fruit, watching
the cloudless sky. A sea breeze whistled through the pile of
driftwood, rustling small patches of grass scattered in the sand
dunes. The wind didn’t seem to be saying anything specific aside
from reassuring him that he wasn’t alone. The lulling sound of
waves splashing on the beach, and the heat of the sun evoked sleep.
Ivar napped under the peaceful blue skies.

Ivar awoke at sunset to find himself soaked
from the rising tide. Salty puddles had formed around him. He
jumped up in shock, disgusted that he let himself be so careless.
But what was worse than getting wet, was that the raft he made now
bounced on the waves, floating out to sea on a journey of its
own.

He dropped his shirt that was tied around
his waist, and dove into the bay hoping to retrieve his handiwork.
The cool of the salty waters stung his flesh as he swam. His strong
arms guided his body as he moved with the current. When he surfaced
for air he expected to be nearer the little cluster of logs he had
sewn together. Unfortunately, the raft had all but disappeared into
the shimmering of the last of the sun’s rays.